


What the Papers Say

by werelupewoods



Category: Neopets
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Hospitalization, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Institutions, Overdosing, Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt, Vent Writing, i wrote this when i was in a bad mood oKAY i'm sorry, like... this whole thing is such a big fucking long miserable disaster jfc......, modern!AU, vent art
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-09
Updated: 2017-04-09
Packaged: 2018-10-17 00:26:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10582590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/werelupewoods/pseuds/werelupewoods
Summary: "Simeon seems... shocked, actually, to see that allthreeof them have come. Earlier this morning, Kanrik had very sternly said that hewasgoing to come visit, despite the many poorly supported protests that Simeon had frustratedly groaned into the phone as response, so... yes, yes, hewasexpecting a visit, and he also knew that Kanrik had been staying with his uncles following the whole 'incident,' but...Well, honestly, he didn’t think that the others would care enough to tag along, and the fact that they all apparentlydoonly makes him feel worse about what he’d done."A Big Godawful Emotional Mess™ taking place in a Modern!AU setting since... well, they have protocols for this type of stuff, now, don't they?





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jammy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jammy/gifts).



> //slaps the desk// So, uh... funny story...
> 
> I wrote this obnoxiously long disaster as vent art of sorts during a bad bout of whateverthefuck on the same night that I had made the post that my dear Jammy said her beautiful work "Hospital Care" was based on. I honestly had no intent of ever putting this anywhere, since it got, uh... painfully personal at some points... and is altogether just a terrible time... but, well, seeing Jammy post her work got me feeling brave enough to clean up and post mine, so, uh... //gestures vaguely// here it is.
> 
> Keep in mind that this piece is, like, stupidly masturbatory, and was written mostly as personal therapy — like, me venting my misery through my favourite characters (as my pathetic ass is so wont to do) — so it's kind of a mess in those regards. Also, please, _please_ note that the subject matter and thoughts described in this, especially towards the end, are incredibly heavy. Like... like, really. I don't wanna go ruining someone's entire week. Or emotional state in general, I guess...
> 
> Well, anyway, **the characters Nicko and Cal both belong to Jammy** , and, uh... yeah, here's this. Enjoy!! ...Or something.

Everything smells so... sterile.

Maybe if this was a _hospital_ -hospital, that fact wouldn’t seem so unnerving, but... well, it’s not. Rather than eliciting a subconscious confidence that this place genuinely cares about the health of those who enter here, the strong stench of cleaning chemicals and cheap soaps and powder-free latex just feels... dirty. It’s as if the staff here are desperately trying to cover something up, though none of the three nervous Gelerts who are now making their way down the off-white halls want to know exactly _what_ that may be. This particular corridor smells like fresh vanilla extract and lemon-lime tile cleaner. They try not to think about what it was that the staff just had to clean off the floors.

What makes it worse is that they were told they needed to take off their shoes. Those aren’t allowed in here, apparently. No shoes, no belts, no long jewellery, no clothing with drawstrings or images that others may find “disturbing” — none of it is permitted. They had to leave it all at the front desk with their bags and their wallets and their phones — all of the things that connect them to the outside world and give them a legal identity. How unnerving. Asking if they could keep the book that they’d brought got them all some nasty looks from the still-in-training woman at the front desk downstairs, then caused a chain reaction of staff asking higher-authority staff in this-or-that other department if those were against the rules. Eventually they were told that books were fine. Getting that go-ahead seemed like an overwhelming accomplishment to all three of them. That’s how low the bar is set here, apparently, and the triumphant feeling found in those sorts of low-standard successes is airborne.

Well, at least during visiting hours there’s some semblance of sanity here — pun only partially intended. Family members of the lesser-gone bring their loved ones fast food and sweets and tell them about what’s been happening in the outside world. They hug them, and they laugh with them, and they eat snacks with them, and they blah, blah, blah, all while the not-so-lucky watch it all longingly — often judgingly — from a distance. All of the windows here are shut — barred. All of the doors here are closed — locked. The collective “they” that takes the form of rumour apparently wasn’t kidding when it said that these places can often feel like a prison from inside, though that’s honestly more of a good thing than a bad one. The three Gelerts all know this as a fact, but they still hate that it’s true. They hate that it’s necessary at all. They hate that... _this_... had to happen.

The mismatched trio all keep their eyes facing forward and their mouths shut — mostly — as they turn down a hallway that’s lined with heavy, windowless doors. The numbers on the plastic plaques beside the doorframes are worn and difficult to read, and since the three of them are all too afraid to rely on presumed number patterns, they choose instead to walk slow. All they know for certain is that they put him in room 221. Kanrik is the only one who gets why that number is ironic. He refuses to tell the others why.

When they finally find the right room, they all think to themselves in unison, _Why am I so damn nervous?_ It’s a genuine thought, and it’s genuinely confusing, and it’s also more than a bit embarrassing to boot. After all, it’s not like anything will be ruined by their being here. It’s not like this is a test. It’s not like they’re about to meet a stranger. They’re simply visiting their very dear friend and family member who just so happens to be... sick. But aside from his illness, he’s doing just fine, right? He’s gotta be. That’s what staff had told them, after all:

He’s fine.

He’s doing fine.

He’ll be just fine.

Everything here is just... fine.

Or so they hope.

Cathal, of course, is the first to find enough courage within himself to cross the threshold into the small room after giving nothing more than a few raps of his knuckles against the heavy door as warning. He quickly earns himself a swift backhand in the arm from his husband Nickolas when the first thing out of his mouth upon entering is, “So you _are_ alive!”

Simeon seems... shocked, actually, to see that all _three_ of them have come. Earlier this morning, Kanrik had very sternly said that he _was_ going to come visit, despite the many poorly supported protests that Simeon had frustratedly groaned into the phone as response, so... yes, yes, he _was_ expecting a visit, and he also knew that Kanrik had been staying with his uncles following the whole “incident,” but...

Well, honestly, he didn’t think that the others would care enough to tag along, and the fact that they all apparently _do_ only makes him feel worse about what he’d done.

Still, he manages a genuine — albeit still rather small — smile at the sound of Cathal’s sarcastic snipe and softly rolls his insomnia-bruised eyes in response. He replies with an unusually meek, “Yeah, that’s what the papers say,” as he turns to face the doorway and crosses his legs, placing the notebook he’d been writing in down beside him. He watches as the other two Gelerts follow Cathal inside and try to find reasonable places to stand in the too-small-for-four-people room. Then the door clicks loudly shut behind them.

Contrary to Cathal’s cockiness, Kanrik seems to be the only one here who is really trying to treat this place as more of an apartment than an asylum. He didn’t comment on any of the strange sights and smells that they had encountered on the way up to this floor. He didn’t comment on the somewhat-frustrating way that the meeting and gathering rooms were set up like a preschool. He didn’t hesitate when he was asked to turn over his things at the front desk. He’s been keeping mostly silent this entire time, and all that he _has_ been saying has been casual. Conversational. Nothing profound. It was practice, honestly — his ignoring everything that he saw that seemed odd. His worst fear in this moment, after all, is that he may make Simeon feel worse by accidentally treating him like a fragile little child, or speaking about his state of being or his current location as if it were intrinsically “abnormal.” This worry is giving him the strength to put up a convincing front of calmness, but now that Simeon is actually here in front of him, he’s starting to worry that his front is transparent.

Which it is.

Just the tiniest bit.

But Simeon figures that that fact could be considered flattering, in an odd sort of way.

The blue Gelert makes his way over to his boyfriend’s bedside and gives him a gentle kiss on the cheek, all the while thinking to himself, _Act natural... just act natural..._ Kanrik asks Simeon how he’s doing, and Simeon says that he’s doing fine, and Cathal says something along the lines of “then tell them to give me back my damn shoes,” and Nickolas gives him another hard backhand before finally forcing the words “I’m so glad to hear that” through his still-nerves-tightened throat.

For these ten-or-so seconds, it’s as if nothing had gone wrong. They’re all just being themselves.

But it’s a little too silent afterwards.

And, unfortunately — or, well, maybe not, depending on how you look at it — Cathal is the first one to speak again. “Gods, this place is depressing...”

He receives another swift backhand in the same second that Simeon begins to snicker into his palm. The grey Gelert’s gentle but genuine laughter is the most relaxing sound in the world to the rest of them, it seems. It helps them all to breathe a bit deeper. They’ve all collectively forgotten in this moment that Simeon has a habit of laughing when he’s uncomfortable. “I’m not sure what you expected, then, Cal,” the grey Gelert finally replies, giving all four of the blank white walls that surround them a judgmental glance in turn. “Energy in, energy out, as they say, right?”

Kanrik is the only one who actually offers any semblance of laughter in response — snorts out some sort of snicker, then looks away shaking his head. Cathal manages to force one of his signature snarky grins, but otherwise, the other two are a bit too nervous to acknowledge the implications in Simeon’s last statement. Maybe if they don’t acknowledge it, it’ll cease to exist. Maybe. Hopefully. Probably not...

Nickolas honestly forgot that he was still holding a book in his hand until an awkward silence begins to settle between the four of them again and he, in response, begins to desperately search for something to say... and to change the subject. He mumbles out a soft, “Oh! Right...” before taking a few gawky steps forward to hand the thick paperback novel over to Simeon, whose expression immediately falls into one of pure puzzlement at the sight. “Arlen suggested that we bring you a copy of this book since you’d been reading it at home,” Nickolas says. He casually leaves out the fact that they all did a “content check” on the particular work before deciding to actually follow through with the idea, since Simeon’s taste in literature often favours tales of tragedy, and the three’s collective paranoia surrounding him and his now-very-intimate relationship with operatic endings has skyrocketed halfway to Kreludor by this point. Nickolas can see in Simeon’s eyes when he takes the book from his hands that he’s surprised by the fact that the edition is new, so he politely explains, “Your copy seemed a little worn, so I, ah... took the liberty of finding you a new one—”

“ _I_ found you a new one,” Cathal calls from behind.

But Nickolas ignores him. “I hope you don’t mind,” he continues to say, “since I know you treasure your collections very much.”

“Oh, no no no, I don’t mind at all, Nicko,” Simeon says. In fact — though he doesn’t voice _this_ part of it aloud — he’s flattered nearly to the point of shame. What a kind gesture. _A kind gesture I don’t deserve..._ He ignores the thought and instead focuses on flipping through the freshly printed pages, half trying to find the spot he was at in his copy at home, and half simply enjoying the feel of the fan of fresh paper brushing smoothly across his fingertips.

Nickolas is too far away from his husband to give him another backhand when he says, “Yeesh, don’t try to _papercut_ yourself to death...” but it doesn’t stop the tall blonde from spinning around and hissing out Cal’s name.

Simeon laughs again in response, though, which Nickolas still isn’t sure is good or bad. In all honesty, Simeon really _is_ incredibly glad that Cathal isn’t treating him like sort of fragile wreck who needs to be shielded from insults. Or, that he’s trying not to _outwardly_ , at least. Simeon doesn’t really want to know what thoughts might be fuelling the Christmas Gelert’s half-forced insults from within. He’s sure that the answer would only make him feel more embarrassed. Still, he half-debates whether or not to tell Nickolas that he honestly appreciates Cathal’s humour more than anything and that Nickolas really needn’t reprimand his husband for his crudity. Simeon decides instead to show this rather than tell. “Promise I won’t,” he says to Cathal as he theatrically closes the book with one hand, causing a loud _clap!_ sound to ring clear as the pages snap together. He then sets the book down next to his journal and continues. “Although... I honestly wouldn’t put it past some of the others here to try something stupid like that.” He ignores the uncharacteristically horrified expression that Nickolas makes in response to the words and instead continues rolling with the tasteless punches. He makes a flippant gesture towards Cathal’s feet. “That’s why they make you take off your shoes and such,” he adds. “They think that if you don’t I’ll hang myself with a shoelace, or something.”

Cathal lets out a short, scoff-like laugh. “A single shoelace? My, wouldn’t that be a sight!”

This time, Nickolas actually walks over to Cathal for the sole purpose of smacking him. Harder. And upside the head.

The thing is, though, it really isn’t the Christmas Gelert’s comments that are getting under Simeon’s skin. Really, it’s not. Dealing with dark times through morbid humour is a trait that the two of them share, and have even bonded over in the past. Cathal’s comments are honestly just making him feel _normal_ , and more comfortable with his current situation as a whole, and he’s sure that Cathal knows that. Cathal is trying to help him feel comfortable. He’s trying to make him feel sane. It’s really, truly heart-warming, in a strange sort of way.

_He... really does care about me, doesn’t he?_

The realisation of this hits Simeon hard in the chest. Cathal cares about him. He does. He’s going out of his way to do the things that he knows will make him feel comfortable, even if it results in him getting a few nasty bruises from his frustrated husband’s smacks. He’s going out of his way to treat Simeon no differently than he usually does, and to treat this place the same way he would if the person at the heart of this ordeal was a stranger, and to treat this whole nasty mess altogether as nothing more than a nearly unnoticeable deviation from the norm that they all can and _will_ easily overcome. The more that Simeon thinks about it, the more he feels as if Nickolas should be backhanding _him_ instead of Cathal; because, despite everything, the only negative thoughts that he’s catching himself thinking in response to this odd form of reassurance that he is loved are ones that scream, _I don’t deserve his care. I don’t deserve any of them. I don’t deserve_ anything...

But he keeps those thoughts to himself. After all, he’s been fighting his hardest these past few days to convince the staff here that he _doesn’t_ feel that way anymore. In fact, he’s also been fighting his hardest to convince _himself_. The fact that, so far, the quest for contentment has been nothing but a painfully fruitless endeavour is only making him feel worse. There’s been a wall of white noise in a language that he, very unfortunately, is fluent in constantly grinding away at the back of his brain all week. It’s a consistent and noisy drone, and it etches self-hate into his very core, and all its alien voice is now repeating within him is, _You’ve got all these people who love you around you, but you’re still a miserable wreck. How pathetic. Why can’t you just be fucking happy? This is why you deserve none of it..._

Kanrik has been sitting in a pensive sort of silence at the foot of Simeon’s bed this entire time, gently toying with the curl of Simeon’s tail — twirling it around his fingers — for some semblance of connection, or something. He’s glad that his uncle Cal is boldly making all of the jokey insults so that _he_ doesn’t have to; because, honestly, though some playful teasing is something that Kanrik definitely _would_ do under any other circumstances, he feels almost... afraid... to actually say anything right now. _What if he takes it more seriously because it’s me? What if I accidentally say something too real? What if I cause him to try something again? What if... I’m the reason he tried in the first place...?_ “Well, I’m glad to see you’re still allowed to write,” Kanrik says, finally deciding that saying something — _anything_ — would be far less insulting than holding his tongue. He only realises that this is the first contribution he’s made to the conversation up until this point after he’s said it, and after everyone’s looked over to him seeming somewhat surprised. He immediately starts to worry that this fact may make him appear guilty of thinking such worried thoughts — which, of course, he is.

But Simeon doesn’t seem to mind. Or, if he does, he doesn’t show it. He turns to look at the half-filled notebook that rests beside him with its pages propped open by a shitty golf pencil, but he doesn’t get the chance to reply to Kanrik’s comment before Cathal gives a sarcastic little gasp and says, “Ooh, did they give you _crayons?_ ”

Simeon is honestly surprised that Nickolas is still reflexively backhanding his husband’s arm after nearly everything he says considering that, up to this point, all Simeon has done in response to the teasing is laugh — and this time is no different. But, well, trying to retaliate in Simeon’s place is just _Nickolas’_ way of showing that he really, honestly cares. Which he does, and just as much as Cathal. It’s just as heart-warming to see, and just as painful to recognise... Simeon ignores those thoughts again, though, and instead just responds to Cathal’s comment. “No, no, I’ve graduated to _pencils_ for my ‘good behaviour,’ ” he says, putting quotes around the words with his fingers and giving another, now-much-bigger eyeroll. “It makes filling out their silly ‘ _how-to-properly-address-your-emotions’_ worksheets and ‘ _how-are-you-feeling-today?’_ questionnaires far less degrading, that’s for sure.”

Once again, Kanrik feels more glad than anything else by the fact that Cathal is keeping the conversation going, even if it _is_ in a rather unorthodox way. Kanrik wasn’t sure if he would be able to keep talking himself, after all. Convincing himself to say anything _at all_ was already enough of a challenge. He had hoped that getting the gears of conversation in motion would help him find the courage that’s suddenly disappeared from within him to show itself again, but... well, it didn’t. He’s just too nervous. Still, he doesn’t want it to _seem_ that way outwardly. Nothing is wrong, after all. Simeon’s doing much better. He’s “responding well to treatment.” Or, at least, that’s what the papers say.

Deciding to be brave again, Kanrik scoots a little closer to Simeon and moves to hold his hand. “Is this place _really_ that cliché?” he asks with a snarky smile, finally allowing himself to show a bit of his typical sass.

Simeon gives him the most exhausted-looking sideways glance that Kanrik feels he’s ever seen. “You have _no_ idea.”

A few more snickers are exchanged, and then there is silence.

An awkward silence.

Then, “Well... how _are_ you feeling?” Kanrik finally forces himself to ask.

His tone makes the question seem terribly taboo, and the way that the other two older Gelerts both hold their silence after he’s asked it only proves that they all seemingly think that it _is_. Even Cathal keeps his mouth shut this time, and it’s clear in his eyes — though he probably wishes it weren’t — that he’s just as nervous about what the answer may be as the rest of them.

But Simeon seems ever-calm and ever-confident when he replies with a gentle shrug and says, very simply, “Fine.” Pause. “A bit crazier than usual, being here and all, but honestly just fine.”

Simeon expects Cathal to snipe back with something along the lines of, “You _are_ crazy,” but... he doesn’t.

And that’s honestly the first thing the Christmas Gelert has done this entire evening that’s made Simeon feel uncomfortable.

And, unfortunately, it makes him uncomfortable enough that his nerves suddenly all stir alive from somewhere in the back of his mind and storm their way down into his chest. He looks to each of the others in turn, genuinely worried — if not completely horrified — by the fact that they aren’t saying anything. He gets the feeling that they don’t believe him, and that makes him panic a bit. They need to believe him. They _need_ to. He needs to _make_ them. “Honestly, I don’t know why they insist on keeping me here,” Simeon then says, his volume suddenly doubled and his words suddenly rushed as he tries to force some sort of his confidence into his tone, though it ends up sounding more unnatural than anything else. Kanrik purses his lips worriedly as Simeon continues. “It’s been a damn week already. They keep obnoxiously praising me like a child for my ‘ _positive attitude_ ’ ” — he puts a mocking emphasis on the words and, again, quotes around them with his fingers, though the motion is a bit awkward since he refuses to drop Kanrik’s hand — “yet they still refuse to humour the notion of any sort of release.” He still gets no response. He still hasn’t convinced them. He still keeps blathering on, looking off to the side with mock frustration. “At this point, I almost wish that I _were_ a child,” he says, “so that my _parents_ could come _pick me up_ , or something...”

Well, at least _Kanrik_ laughs at the joke. The other two just offer small smiles.

Hearing the obvious panic in Simeon’s tone is all that Kanrik apparently needed to get his courage back. He addresses the topic directly this time rather than skirting or avoiding it. Simeon’s always preferred curtness over kindness, after all. “Well, unfortunately for you,” Kanrik says, “last I heard they’ve still got you on that fifty-two, so you’ve probably got a few more days of, ah... questionnaires left before they let you leave.”

Simeon makes a disgusted face and scoffs only half-sarcastically. “I mean, they let out the guy who kept claiming that he was king of the realm and telling people to bow to him after just a few days of being here,” he says. “I don’t see why _I’m_ considered worse than _that_...”

“Legal history, maybe?” Kanrik suggests calmly.

The other two look somewhat horrified by the fact that Kanrik is bringing up _that_ , of all things, but Simeon’s mood doesn’t shift. He’s still more appreciative of the bluntness than he is offended by it. Still being half-sarcastic, he lets out an exaggerated huff. “Haven’t they heard the phrase ‘ _let bygones be bygones..._?’ ”

And this is when Cathal finally decides to chime in again with a half-mumbled, “Well, nobody wants to say _bye_ or have you _gone_ , let alone _twice_ , so...”

Nickolas can’t even bring himself to smack his husband this time, half because the joke was so fucking stupid, and half because Simeon hasn’t laughed this hard in months. He’s always been a sucker for wordplay. He tries to muffle his very theatrical-sounding laughter in the palm of his free hand, but he’s hardly successful. “Goddammit, Cal...”

Cathal’s glad that that worked, since he was honestly a bit embarrassed to say it. “What, did I mishear you?” he then asks in a painfully childish voice, just to feed the atmosphere, and Simeon’s only reply is a snorted-out, “Shut the fuck up, Cal.”

Nickolas pinches the bridge of his nose, but he’s still smiling despite himself.

Well, at least the silence that follows their giggling _this_ time feels far less heavy, though it still lasts a little too long to stay out of the realm of “awkward.” They’re all smiling, and they’ve all shifted to hold themselves less nervously, and they’re all just glad to be here and together and _living_ in this moment; but, well...

A car drives by on the rainy roads from somewhere in the streets down below the barred window. The air conditioner clicks on overhead and begins a low, droning whirr. Simeon instinctively lifts his knees to his chest to brace himself for the cold. Kanrik scoots closer still so he can hold Simeon’s arm and rest his head on his shoulder.

For a long while, nothing but these few things stir.

Then, “Um...”

Simeon knows what he wants to say, but he doesn’t really want to say it.

But, unfortunately, the simple sound was enough to grab everyone’s full attention. He looks up to see all three pairs of expectant eyes looking calmly towards him, and that makes him feel a bit nervous again. Now he doesn’t know what to do.

But, luckily for him, Nickolas’ perceptiveness spares him the awkward question. The tall blonde Gelert has always been almost frighteningly good at reading people’s expressions — and also, seemingly, minds. “Well, Cal,” he says, turning to face his husband, who looks over to him with a hum of questioning, “I know that it hasn’t been a very long visit, but... maybe we should give these two some time alone, hm?”

Cathal apparently has one last crude joke left in him. “My dear, don’t be silly,” he says, “what if the nurse _catches_ them...?”

It takes a few seconds for everyone to get it, though they all do at seemingly the same time. Kanrik turns his now-blushing face away with a muttered, “Dammit, Cal...” at the same time that Simeon mirrors the action in an embarrassed silence. Nickolas gives the same now-very-sore spot on Cathal’s arm another hard backhand and annoyedly mutters, “You know what I meant.”

Cathal raises his hands in mock surrender, only realising just how much his bicep’s begun to ache from the repeated sting of Nicko’s knuckles when he finally uses those muscles for the motion. “Fine, fine, fine,” he then says, feigning exhaustion. “It’s getting cold in here anyway...”

Nickolas doesn’t really let Cathal finish his sentence before he turns back to face Simeon, breathes deep, then walks over to give the grey Gelert a gentle embrace, forcing Simeon to sit straight so he can reach over the tall blonde’s shoulders. Nickolas hardly even realises that he’s doing it. It’s just such an impulse in this moment. “I’m glad to see you’re okay,” he half-mumbles as he pulls away, trying desperately hard to hold back the tears that he didn’t even realise he’d been fighting this entire time. “You, ah...” He breathes deep. “You had me worried, you know.”

“ _Us_ ,” Cathal immediately calls from behind. “You had us _both_ very worried.”

Nickolas turns around to look at him, for once without the intent of smacking him.

Cathal meets his husband’s golden gaze, then looks Simeon dead in the eyes with the most serious expression he’s seen him make in ages. “I’m... very, very glad that you’re safe, Simeon,” he then says, slowly and earnestly, for once without a single trace of acerbity in his tone.

Well, now Simeon is just embarrassed again.

But, at the same time, he’s also... relieved, in a way, to straightforwardly hear that two of the people he cares about most in this world honestly care just as much about _him_.

They do.

They honestly do.

_Despite everything I’ve done to hurt them, they still really, really do..._

The thought comes a little too late for Simeon to be able to supress his rather shocked expression, though it comes quickly enough that neither of the two older Gelerts feel the need to apologise. He gives Cathal a gentle, genuine smile. “I, uh...” Pause. “I am too, I guess,” he says with a nervous laugh.

Silence.

Nickolas finally drops Simeon’s shoulders completely and makes his way back to Cathal’s side, glad that his husband has finally just admitted to some sort of genuine care by means other than his painfully dark sense of humour. He then turns back towards the other two who still sit on the bed together with a long exhale.

Simeon’s expression seems hollow, but his tone is still genuine when he says, “Thank you for coming. It, uh... it really means a lot.”

Nickolas _feels_ like there’s more he wants to say, but he can’t seem to find what it is. He’s too suddenly reminded of just where they are when he hears Cathal opening the heavy door behind him and the mutterings of the staff become audible again — stuff about medications and procedures and fancy codes and other psychiatric garbage. Now he’s worried about leaving again. Now he’s reminded of why they’re here in the first place.

But he forces himself to follow Cathal’s lead. After all, he knows full well that part of the reason why Simeon has been staying so reticent regarding the details about how he’s doing is because, despite how much he truly _does_ care about both of Kanrik’s uncles, there’s just some things he doesn’t really feel comfortable saying in front of them, as well as plenty of things that he needs to say to Kanrik and to Kanrik _alone_. Kanrik’s the one whom he’s been living with for years now, after all. He’s the one who knows the deepest and darkest of all of Simeon’s thoughts. He’s the one who saw the first signs of his state of mind beginning to rot. He’s the one who found him unconscious and half-dead on the bedroom floor...

Pushing all of those thoughts aside, and trying to avoid fleshing out the implied imagery, Nickolas gives a gentle nod of his head, then turns to leave while Cathal holds the door open for him. He looks over his shoulder to his nephew to say, “We’ll be waiting for you in the car,” then faces Simeon one last time before he disappears around the corner with a gentle, “Take care of yourself, my friend.”

Cathal’s goodbye comes in the form of him pointing an accusatory finger in Simeon’s direction and saying a stern, nagging, “Promise me you’ll let them feed you.”

Simeon rolls his eyes one last time. “Cross my heart,” he says as Nicko gives Cathal another backhand from the hallway.

The last thing Simeon and Kanrik hear before the heavy door clicks shut again is Cathal’s echoed voice from somewhere not too far down the corridor: “You don’t think they actually _removed_ our shoelaces, do you?”

Then, hiss.

Click.

Silence.

Kanrik finally exhales the breath that he didn’t even realise he’d been holding once the door’s been completely closed. “He’s such a dork,” he mumbles, just trying to fill the now-empty space between them with some sort of sound, his words sparkling with the tiniest trace of laughter. Simeon’s begun lacing and unlacing his fingers in his lap, which Kanrik knows means he’s nervous about something. He gets the feeling that he knows what that _something_ is — what Simeon’s wanting to say — but he doesn’t want to hear it. He tries to talk in its place. “You’re probably the only person I know who would actually find _comfort_ in the shit Uncle Cal says,” Kanrik continues, leaning forward a bit to try to look Simeon in the eyes, feigning confidence by forcing a small but still earnest smile. “I’m sure that’s part of why he likes you so much.”

 _How could anyone give a shit about me after this..._ Simeon’s thoughts are suddenly ten times louder and ten times more impossible to ignore now that the others are gone. Kanrik is already well aware of how miserable he tends to be in the privacy of home, after all. He’s the _only_ one who fully knows, honestly, as well as the only one whom Simeon has ever felt okay with _allowing_ to know. The biggest part of the grey Gelert has instinctively started to feel more comfortable with breaking down his confident front and instead just being himself now that he and Kanrik are alone; but, unfortunately, “himself” is not really a person that he enjoys being. He stays silent.

Kanrik isn’t sure what to say, but he knows what that glinting in Simeon’s eyes means, and it worries him.

So does the fidgeting.

So does the silence.

So does the fact that the first thing Simeon says when he finally shoves his now incredibly dark thoughts to the back of his throat is, “Kanrik, I am so, _so_ sorry — I... I don’t know what came over me, and it was just so fucking stupid and impulsive and I am so, so, _so_ sor—”

Kanrik cuts off the rant that he knew from the start would inevitably happen by throwing his arms around Simeon in a tight embrace, again forcing the grey Gelert to sit straight and drop his feet back to the floor. His flood of apologies suddenly catches in his throat. He isn’t sure what he’s feeling anymore. “Please don’t apologise,” Kanrik says, his voice oddly meek, though it’s obvious that he’s trying to force it to not be. “You’re, just...” He struggles to find a decent word. “You’re just... sick, you know? You... you have an illness, and it’s not your fault, and... B-but you’re safe now, and it’s all in the past, and that’s all that matters, okay? Please, just... don’t be upset with yourself... it’s not your fault...”

Great, now Simeon feels like crying...

But he can’t. If he does, Kanrik might know that his thoughts haven’t silenced. If he does, Kanrik might get more worried than he already obviously is. If he does, they might not let him leave this hellhole...

So no, no, he can’t let these thoughts consume him. He needs to push them aside. He’s not crazy, after all. He’s not. He _can’t_ be. He’s just...

What did Kanrik just call it?

Sick.

He’s got an illness, and it’s not fault.

Or maybe that’s just what the papers say.

After a few sluggish seconds of being silently held, Simeon finally lifts his still-weak arms to hug the blue Gelert back, and though he wishes he wouldn’t — and hardly even realises that he does — he can’t stop himself from saying, “I’m... I’m sorry I scared you, Kanrik, and—”

“ _Please_ ,” Kanrik insists, pulling out of their embrace to hold Simeon’s shoulders and look him in the eyes — eyes that widen in shock at the sound of Kanrik’s voice being suddenly filled with a confidence that’s regal enough to border on authoritative. “I’m... I’m serious,” Kanrik says. “Like, really, _really_ serious. You don’t need to apologise. _Please_ don’t. You, uh...” He knows what he’s going to say next, but he decides to try being a bit sarcastically playful with it. It helped when Cathal did that, after all... He rolls his eyes just the tiniest bit and gives a little huff, though his breath trembles slightly with the exhale. “You always do this same damn _thing_ where you get down on yourself when _you’re_ the only one who deserves any apologies,” he says.

Pause. Simeon’s voice turns half-panicked. “Kanrik, n—... no, no, Kanrik, you should _not_ be apologising to me; you di—”

Simeon’s _third_ attempted rant is also cut short when Kanrik grunts a bit and bats his hand in the air to keep him from saying anything further. “Okay, okay, bad choice of words,” Kanrik says, “but...” Another light huff. “You know what I mean...”

Well... actually, no.

He really doesn’t, honestly.

He’s too “sick” to know.

But at least Kanrik can tell from the silence that follows his less-than-eloquent sentence that Simeon isn’t fully understanding what he’s trying to say — or, maybe, is actively trying to ignore it. Still, he struggles to find the right words. “I meant, like...” He drums his fingers on Simeon’s shoulder — once, twice, three times — then, “Like... if anyone here deserves to be treated with extra respect right now, it’s _you_ , you know? You’ve, um... You’ve been through more than any of the rest of us have. You’re just...” He stutters. He holds his breath. He looks off to the side. He sighs long and hard. “ _You_ are the one who’s fighting this the most, but... but you’re here now, and you’re recovering, and you’re alive, and... and that is worth just _so_ much. And... and, honestly, the fact that you’re just fucking _alive_ makes me happier than anything else in this world right now. It really, really does, okay? I’m just... I’m glad to be here with you right now. I’m glad you’re still here with _me_. You really, _really_ don’t need to apologise.”

Simeon doesn’t know if he feels better or worse hearing Kanrik say all of this.

He doesn’t know if he believes him.

But the voice of that terrible tyrant in the back of his mind is starting to grow louder again.

_Kanrik is too good for me..._

His thoughts are catching up to him.

_He’s so sweet, and so understanding, but I’m still just a fucking wreck despite all he does for me..._

No matter how desperately hard he tries to run away, they always, _always_ catch up to him.

 _I really don’t deserve this... I really don’t deserve_ him _..._

But he could never say those thoughts out loud, or else he would never get out of here. If it were just him and Kanrik and they _weren’t_ in this horrible place — this horrible place with their horrible rules and their horrible protocols — he’d probably feel comfortable enough to voice these thoughts so the two of them could talk them out and then just lie together until the world starts to feel less shitty, but...

This isn’t something he can just casual talk about right now. He’s not at home lying on the couch and wallowing in some misplaced misery while Kanrik shoplifts expensive ice cream for the two of them to binge on. He can’t be mopey and casually whine while he’s here, or they’ll just try to make him take more pills. He can’t say that he’s still thinking these horrible thoughts, or these people will just keep him here forever. He can’t say that he’s still unsure that he deserves a place in the world. He can’t say that, honestly, when all’s said and done... he’s really not sure if he’s changed his mind.

But he needs to _pretend_ that he has, at least.

He needs to convince them that everything’s okay.

He just needs to get home, so he can...

Simeon finally takes in a deep breath, closing his eyes to try to clear his mind, then lowers his gaze and exhales long. He’s lucky that he’s always been a decent actor, since the smile that he then forces actually seems sincere. The glistening of the tears that sting his eyes can be easily mistaken for thankfulness rather than regret, and though he doesn’t agree with the sentiment in what Kanrik is saying enough to make the words taste any less rancid on his tongue, he still manages to force himself to respond with a soft, “I, um... I guess that’s one way of looking at it.”

Kanrik is relieved to hear him agreeing so “genuinely.” He’s _more_ than relieved, honestly. That must mean he really _is_ doing better, right?

_I don’t deserve Kanrik’s kindness..._

Finally feeling like he can trust what Simeon is saying — somewhat — the blue Gelert lowers his hands to take hold of Simeon’s once more. He forces their fingers to lace — though Simeon doesn’t really do anything to stop him — to keep Simeon from continuing to lace and unlace his own. The space between them only feels calm in this moment because it _needs_ to, not because it _is_. But Kanrik can’t tell. He probably never _will_. Simeon’s a good liar.

Kanrik lowers his eyes to look at their hands, just to feel the connection there more — to see the contrast of the colours of their fur; to feel the familiar texture of Simeon’s calloused fingertips on the back of his right hand; to gently run his fingers across the soft skin of the scars on his knuckles; to know that, despite everything, he’s really, truly here. Kanrik then takes the time that’s presented itself in this moment of silence to secretly look Simeon over — to take in all the details about him that he’d worried he’d forgotten during this hellish week of separation, and to notice all of the things that have changed. The practically unnoticeable dark patches of fur from the spots that Simeon once had are all gone. The workers here are only allowing him to wear short sleeves at the moment, so his still-bandaged wrists and scarred arms are exposed. They made him take down his hair. They made him cut his nails. They confiscated his necklaces. They took his wedding ring.

Simeon is desperately trying to focus on not fidgeting his fingers, though he doesn’t realise that the lack of motion is actually more abnormal than anything, considering the fact that he almost always runs his thumb over Kanrik’s knuckles whenever they’re holding hands. He tries to not tap his feet. He tries to keep from anxiously curling the tip of his tail. He tries to keep his focus on one specific spot — Kanrik’s hands — instead of darting his eyes nervously around the room. All of these things, he’s only half-successful in. All of these things, Kanrik notices.

A gentle sigh from the blue Gelert is the first thing to break the silence. He knows that asking the question he wants to ask will be mostly futile — knows that he’ll get the same answer whether it’s true or not — but still, he finds himself half-whispering, “Are you... honestly feeling better?”

And Simeon isn’t sure what to say.

Because the answer to that question as a whole is, honestly, no. Sure, he hasn’t been feeling the awful impulses that had landed him in here in the first place, but he doesn’t really trust that they won’t come back. He hasn’t been absentmindedly picking at the skin of his arms, but he doesn’t really trust that he won’t in the future. He hasn’t gotten the thought to jump when he looks out the window into the streets below, but he doesn’t really trust that he still wouldn’t feel it if the bars weren’t there to stop him. What’s worse is, the fact that he can’t for the life of him get the rest of those stupid fucking thoughts to shut the fuck up, despite having literally just been in the company of people who genuinely do care for and love him and want to see him safe, and despite the fact that his wonderful, loving, amazing boyfriend is sitting right here beside him, holding his hands and gently reassuring him that his life makes him happy is all just making those thoughts louder.

And louder, and louder, and louder...

“I’m... really, really feeling much better,” he eventually decides to lie, though he doesn’t dare raise his eyes, since he’s sure that the only thing visible there would be blatant insincerity. “A bit uncomfortable being here, but mostly just embarrassed, I think,” he says. “A bit... unnatural, since they cut my damn nails and all that, but... but still better all around... I think.”

Kanrik doesn’t believe him.

Simeon doesn’t believe himself, either.

But he _needs_ to believe himself if he ever wants to get out of this place. He needs to. He _needs_ to. He needs to convince himself that his thoughts can’t harm him, and that the pills he isn’t even taking are helping, and that his family still loves him, and that he can eventually learn to love himself, too. He’s sure that he can do it. He’s a good liar. He can trick himself into believing anything if he needs to. He can do it. He _needs_ to do it.

But all that he can hear in his head in this moment is the thought that he’ll always fall back.

But he keeps it to himself. He _needs_ to keep it to himself. He takes a deep breath, and he forces the faintest hint of a smile, and he crosses his ankles, and he presses his arms against his thighs to apply some gentle pressure to the stitches on his still-sore wrists while he also tries to ignore the cramping from the overdose’s phantom in his stomach that _still_ hasn’t gone the fuck away, because even though he honestly tried fucking _everything_ he could this time, he _still_ couldn’t pull it off and he’s still _here_ and he doesn’t _want_ to be and he doesn’t _need_ to be and he _can’t fucking stand it_ and he just wants it all to...

He hates lying to Kanrik — he avoids it at all costs — but...

“As much as I hate this place, I think it’s helping a bit,” he says, looking Kanrik dead in the eyes, feeling both relieved and horribly guilty when Kanrik makes a face in response that implies that he’s starting to believe him. Simeon forces himself to create some semblance of casual conversation to keep the façade of his supposedly feeling fine from failing, despite the thoughts in his head now being amplified by the resonating chambers of the lie he’s creating. “I think being away from, uh... well, the collective _everything_ , I guess... is helping a bit.”

But those thoughts are still there: _Liar._

He ignores them, though, and just keeps talking. “I _do_ really love playing for the philharmonic, but... the workload gets overwhelming at times, you know...”

_Filthy liar._

“So... I guess it’s kinda nice, in a way, to be somewhere where I know I don’t have to worry about any of that.”

_Pathetic, worthless liar._

“It’s really helping to calm my nerves.”

_I’m a fucking disgrace._

“I think I’m learning a lot about myself, honestly.”

_A pathetic fucking disgrace._

“Things I wish I’d known sooner, so that none of this ever had to happen, but...”

 _It’ll just happen again_.

“But at least I know for the future, I guess, right?”

 _I_ want _to do it again._

“Maybe this was just a wake-up call, like... just telling me that I’m too overwhelmed, or something.”

 _I’m_ going _to do it again._

“It... it was just a stupid overreaction, honestly.”

_I should have tried harder._

“And... well, I know you don’t want to hear this, but... I’m really quite embarrassed that I even tried anything stupid like that at all.”

_I’m only embarrassed I didn’t succeed._

Kanrik exhales hard.

Simeon finally concludes with a near-whispered, “I... honestly have faith that I’ll be okay.”

And, at the very same second the last syllable leaves his tongue, one final thought finds a seemingly permanent home within him: _Next time I’ll do a better job._

Silence.

Simeon is lucky — or, maybe it’s honestly _unlucky_ in the grand scheme of things, though it _does_ help him accomplish what he’s trying to do in this particular moment — that his natural reflex in uncomfortable or stressful situations like this is to laugh it off, because he’s finding some terrible cosmic irony in the fact that he’s purposefully saying the opposite of all of his thoughts, but the knowing that that is exactly what he’s doing it is what’s making him smile so genuinely.

And Kanrik can see it. He can see that Simeon’s not forcing it anymore. He can see that he’s honestly more calm. He can tell that his confident tone is genuine. He just doesn’t know that it’s genuine for all the wrong reasons.

But what else can he do but believe? Simeon sounds so sincere, and he’s speaking so coolly about this all, and everything he’s saying makes so much sense, and it’s all so, _so_ reassuring to hear spoken in such a warm tone. Not just that, but the staff here had said that he was doing incredibly well, and that they could probably lift the hold early if it continued... Everyone has faith that Simeon’s doing fine. Everyone has faith that he’ll be okay. Everyone has faith that he won’t try again. Everyone has faith, except for Simeon himself.

But that’s unimportant.

No, really, it is.

All that matters is what the papers say.

And it looks like they’ll soon read “safe for discharge.”

Simeon knows in his heart — knows for a damn _fact_ — that if he leaves this place at the beginning of next week, he’ll only be back by the end. That is, if they manage to find him in time. He knows that nothing within him has been solved. He knows that he’s actively avoiding trying. He knows that he isn’t doing “fine” like they say. He knows that, if he keeps this shit up, he probably never will be.

The worst part is that this place is actually helping. No, really, it is. He’s trying his best to convince himself that he hates it here, and that they’re all terrible people, and that he doesn’t need any of their help, but... Well, he’s being forced to at least _consider_ his thoughts, even though he’s choosing to pretend like he doesn’t have them at all. He’s being constantly encouraged to eat, even though he turns it all down more than he accepts it. He’s being taken away from all the stresses in his day-to-day life, though he claims that he just wants to go back to his painful norm. He’s being kept safe, and he’s being well cared for, and he’s being given literally everything and anything that one could be given to help them find sanctity within their own minds and hearts. He’s being offered everything that could help save his life. He’s being offered everything, but he’s accepting none.

Maybe, if he admitted to the workers that he hasn’t changed his mind, they could help him to actually do it.

Maybe, if he stopped only _pretending_ to take their pills, he’d be able to sleep better, and feel better, and _be_ better.

Maybe, if he actually went to those silly meetings, and heard other people’s stories, he could better understand his own.

Maybe, if he stayed a bit longer, and he really, actually tried, the words he’s saying to Kanrik in this moment would no longer be lies.

But he doesn’t want to stay. He just doesn’t _want_ to. He feels so damn strongly that he doesn’t need any help, but... well, isn’t that exactly why he _does?_

At this exact moment, and with that exact thought most present in Simeon’s mind, Kanrik leans forward to rest his cheek in the crook of Simeon’s neck and lightly wrap his arms around his narrow waist, drawing swirls in the small of his back with his gentle, loving fingertips. He exhales long, and he says, “I love you so much,” and the very same second that Simeon says, “I love you, too,” he painfully realises that that’s the first honest thing that he’s said all week.

But that _is_ one thing he knows for an absolute fact: he loves Kanrik more than anything else in life.

And _another_ thing that he’s mostly convinced of by now is that Kanrik loves him back.

He wants Kanrik to be happy, and Kanrik wants him to be safe.

His illness pleads in scarlet, and its voice is loud and shrill; but...

But as he feels Kanrik’s entire being softening against his chest as he relaxes into the warm of his arms, he realises that the _real_ question he should be asking himself is: what’s more important — his thoughts’ demands, or his love’s?

What is more important here?

What does he really want?

 

~

It’s been raining all month, but it’s a gorgeous sight, and the smell of wet pavement is bliss.

Icy winter winds sting Simeon’s cheeks as he and Kanrik walk hand-in-hand down the road towards the parking lot, but he’s still just glad to be feeling something fresh against his skin. The city is alive despite the cold, and its voice is soothing like a faerie’s song. Every building in sight is shimmering with light beneath the blinding white of the overcast skies. The sound of crowds talking, and avian petpets singing, and the trees’ leaves rustling — it’s music.

Everyone was surprised when he opted to stay. _Everyone_ , including himself. It’s been over a month, and he’s sure his conductor hates him, and he’s more than a bit stressed about having so little time left to learn the symphony’s entire winter program, but...

Well, he knows he can handle it.

He’s figured out plenty of things this past month that should help.

As the hospital’s shadow disappears behind them, he leans against the passenger side door with his cheek on his fist and his breath painting patterns onto the window’s chilly glass. He’s ignoring whatever music is playing softly from the car stereo and instead focusing on the sounds that he hasn’t heard in what feels like ages — the car’s engine whirring as it picks up speed, the _whoosh_ ing of heavy winds across its hood, the noise of people laughing beside the busy streets, somebody’s skittish Doglefox barking at somebody else’s tired Zomutt... He draws swirls in the fog that he breathes onto the window as he watches this strange city zoom by, all the while wondering what will happen tonight, or the next day, or next week, or next year...

His thoughts still haven’t quite stopped their abuse, and his veins themselves still itch; but, well...

He has real, honest faith that this time he’ll be able to ignore all of their cries.

He’s “no longer a threat to himself or others,” after all.

Or, at least, that’s what the papers say.


End file.
